Ghosts of Havana
Page 1
ALSO BY TODD MOSS
FICTION
Minute Zero
The Golden Hour
NONFICTION
Oil to Cash: Fighting the Resource Curse through Cash Transfers
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African Development: Making Sense of the Issues and Actors
Adventure Capitalism: Globalization and the Political Economy of Stock Markets in Africa
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
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Copyright © 2016 by Todd Moss
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eBook ISBN 9780698406407
Map by Jeffrey L. Ward
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Also by Todd Moss
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
Epigraph
Map
PROLOGUE
PART ONE | THIRTY-SIX HOURS EARLIER Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
PART TWO | THURSDAY Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
PART THREE | FRIDAY Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
PART FOUR | SATURDAY Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Acknowledgments
About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Ghosts of Havana is entirely a work of fiction, but the story draws on true historical episodes and was partly inspired by my real-life experiences working inside the United States government. When I first began conceiving of a thriller about the U.S. and Cuba, I assumed that, after more than half a century of frozen relations, there was little prospect for change. Boy, was I wrong. In December 2014, the White House surprised the world by announcing steps toward normalization with Havana, proving yet again that even the most intractable foreign policy logjams can break at any time. And that what comes next is always unpredictable.
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
—MATTHEW 6:21
Success is what succeeds.
—MCGEORGE BUNDY,
National Security Adviser, secret memo to the President one week after the Bay of Pigs, April 24, 1961
War is always hell, but Florida seemed worse.
—MICHAEL GRUNWALD
on the Second Seminole War (1835–42) in The Swamp
PROLOGUE
STRAITS OF FLORIDA
WEDNESDAY, 5:28 P.M.
Pirates don’t drive minivans, dammit!”
Alejandro Cabrera was about to reply when he heard the first shot.
Booosh!
“What’s that?” Dennis shouted, whipping his head around.
The hollow explosion was followed by an accelerating whistle and, after a momentary pause, a loud splash just off the bow.
The four middle-aged Americans all hit the deck of The Big Pig, a white sportfishing boat with a pink stripe along its side.
“Mierda,” Alejandro hissed.
“What’s happening, Al?” Dennis whined, lying on the floor and covering his head.
“Cubans,” Brinkley said matter-of-factly.
“Cubans? Holy cow!” Dennis screamed. “Why, why, why?”
“What the fuck have you gotten us into, Al?” Crawford clenched his teeth.
“Probably MGR,” Brinkley offered, his cheek pressed flat against the boat deck.
“MGR? What the fuck is that?”
“Marina de Guerra Revolucionaria,” Brinkley replied as calmly as he could. “The Cuban navy.”
“I told you we were over the line! I freaking told you we were over the line!” Dennis shrieked.
“Goddamn bonefish,” Crawford growled. “We’re gonna get killed over a goddamn bonefish.”
“We are in international waters, gentlemen. There’s nothing to worry about,” Brinkley tried to reassure his friends. “Everybody stay calm.”
“Hijo de puta!” Alejandro spat.
“Holy cow . . . Holy cow . . .” Dennis muttered to himself, his voice quivering.
“Calm down, Deuce,” Crawford said. “What do we do now, Brink?”
Brinkley Barrymore III picked himself up and peered cautiously over the side of the boat, which was rocking gently on the ocean swell. He squinted toward the horizon through a pair of high-powered binocula
rs. The sky was starting to turn a blue-pink in the late sun. “There,” he said, pointing off the stern. Brinkley tossed the binoculars to the much larger man next to him. “Craw, give me an assessment and an ETA.”
Crawford Jackson caught the binoculars and, in one smooth motion, raised them to his eyes.
“Al, get down below. The radio’s in the hold. Call our friends for help. Let them know we’ve been intercepted.”
“The Big Pig is my fucking boat, Brink!” Alejandro snapped. “I’m the captain. I say we hit the engine and run for it.”
“You want them to shoot at us?”
“I’ve got more horsepower,” Alejandro said. “This baby can outrun anything MGR has on the water.”
“Dead astern, naval patrol boat approaching at high speed. Cuban flag,” Crawford announced.
“Negative. We’re not running from the Cuban navy,” Brinkley said. “It’s not the prudent move.”
“I don’t surrender.” Alejandro scowled. “Cabreras never surrender.”
“Al, who knows what other ships are out there? And planes?” Brinkley said. “We aren’t running.”
“ETA: three minutes,” Crawford said.
“We are just fishing, gentlemen,” Brinkley insisted. “There’s no need to escalate.”
Alejandro removed his Miami Marlins baseball cap and rubbed his goatee.
“This is not the time, Al. Go down below. Call our friends. And take Deuce with you,” he said, pointing at Dennis, lying frozen on the deck.
“I don’t like it,” Al said, putting his cap back on and licking his lips.
“They’re still approaching at full speed,” said Crawford.
“Now, Al!” Brinkley raised his voice for the first time. “You have to call now.”
“Puta!”
“Two minutes,” Crawford announced.
“Deuce, get your ass off the floor and go down below to help Al. Do it now.” Brinkley was trying to contain himself. “This is no time for one of your panic attacks.”
“This is a perfect time for panic.” Dennis looked up, his face flushed and his eyes already red. “What am I gonna tell Beth?”
“Now, Deuce!”
Alejandro pulled on Dennis’s arm. “What does Brink mean by ‘intercepted’?” Dennis asked. Al ignored the question, and the two men scampered down the steps to below deck.
The boat’s radio erupted with Spanish chatter. “Barco no identificado! Pare! Ustedes se encuentran en las aguas nacionales Cubanas! Pare!”
“Ninety seconds,” said Crawford, binoculars glued to his eyes. “And they’re armed.”
“Es La Marina de Guerra Revolucionaria! Pare!” the radio blared.
“This is The Big Pig,” Brinkley spoke slowly into the radio. “We are American civilians. We are fishing. Just fishing. Over.”
“Pare! Prepárense para ser abordados!”
“No Spanish. No hablo español. We are just fishing. Over,” he repeated.
“One minute,” Crawford said. “They aren’t slowing down.”
Brinkley hollered down to Alejandro. “Have you called yet? You’ve got one minute!”
“Yes I fucking called them,” Alejandro appeared in the companionway, gripping an M16 assault rifle.
“What are you doing, Al?”
“I’m not going back to Cuba,” he said, raising the gun barrel toward the approaching boat.
“Are you crazy? Throw that overboard. We can’t take on the Cuban navy. Throw them all overboard.”
“What ‘all’?” Crawford lowered the binoculars. “What the fuck is going on here, Brink? Al?”
“I don’t surrender.” Alejandro bit his lower lip and aimed the rifle. “I told you Cabreras never surrender.”
“Lower that weapon now!” Brinkley ordered. “Throw them all overboard. You’re giving them a reason to shoot us. We are just fishing.”
“Why the hell do you have an M16 on your fishing boat, Al?” Crawford clenched his two fists in anger.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat! the deck exploded in a line of gunfire. The men hit the deck again.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Crawford hissed.
“Stay calm, everybody,” Brinkley said.
Dennis appeared in the stairwell with a small arsenal of weapons. Crawford’s eyes widened as Dennis began throwing guns into the ocean: another M16, an AR-15, two pistols.
“No!” Alejandro shouted.
“What the fuck is going on here, Brink?” Crawford demanded.
“Deuce, no!” Alejandro lurched toward him too late. Just as Dennis dropped the last pistol over the side of the boat, his body suddenly convulsed, a bright red stain oozing across his back. Dennis Dobson pitched forward and fell into the rolling blue sea.
“Man overboard!” Crawford shouted. Brinkley threw a lifesaver over the side just as Crawford dove headfirst into the ocean.
“Pare! Pare!” bellowed the loudspeaker on the approaching vessel. The fishing boat was raked with more gunfire.
Crawford reached Dennis, floating facedown in the waves, and spun him onto his back. “I’ve got you,” he gasped, trying not to swallow seawater. Crawford tucked his arm under his friend’s neck and grabbed the lifesaver’s rope with his free hand. “I’ve got you, Deuce.”
“Beth!” Dennis gurgled. “Beth!”
Brinkley pulled in the rope, ignoring the Cubans who had stopped shooting and were now circling the fishing boat like a lion stalking an injured gazelle.
“Puta,” Alejandro hissed, flipping his weapon into the sea and raising his hands. He stared ahead with dead eyes as the patrol boat pulled alongside. The deck of the larger ship was lined with Cuban soldiers, all aiming weapons at the now-unarmed Americans. The setting sun bathed the naval ship in a soft, calming pink light.
Brinkley dragged Dennis onto the deck and applied pressure to the wound. Crawford hauled himself back on board, raised his hands, and then collapsed on the deck, panting, out of breath.
Alejandro, his hands still raised high, waved his baseball cap at the soldiers and forced a smile. “Just fishing, señores.”
PART ONE
THIRTY-SIX HOURS EARLIER
1.
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.
TUESDAY, 5:30 A.M.
Judd Ryker opened one eye and winced at the clock. Five-thirty. The good news was that he had slept through the night. And he was home. My own bed, he thought, feeling the cool clean sheets as he stretched his legs.
As Judd cleared the jetlag haze from his mind, the conversation of the previous evening flooded back into his brain. Was it a dream?
Judd rolled his head and Jessica came into view. His wife was still sound asleep, breathing softly, a slight, satisfied smile on her lips, an expression of gentle relief on her face. He watched the contours of her mouth and listened to her lungs, a comforting rhythm of inhale and exhale. Yes, Jessica was asleep. And they were both still here.
The night before, Judd had returned from Zimbabwe, a grueling twenty-two-hour journey that had provided him far too much time alone with nothing but his thoughts. Too much time to think about his latest assignment on behalf of the Secretary of State and how it all had unfolded. It had all come together just a bit too smoothly, a touch too succinctly. Judd’s mind ran through the events—the downfall of Zimbabwe’s dictator; the election of a new, hopeful democratic leader for that shell-shocked country; a murderous Ethiopian general dead, the victim of a premeditated campaign of revenge—all good results, but . . .
It had required a thick dollop of good luck. A suspicious amount of good luck. And so, too, had his previous mission three months earlier to rescue an American ally in the West African nation of Mali.
Judd knew that luck was random. Luck was always random. Before he’d arrived at the State Department, he had been a professor at Amherst College, a number crunc
her, a leading expert at teasing out patterns in data to uncover what was really going on. And, like any decent scholar of statistics, Judd knew that randomness always—always—washed out in the end.
So, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, wedged into a middle seat in row 64 of a South African Airways Airbus A330, Judd Ryker had finally admitted to himself the only possible way it could make any sense at all. The source of his luck could only be . . . Jessica.
His wife never conceded what she did, exactly. She never spoke the letters CIA, never said the word “spy,” never mentioned anything about operations or cover. But she didn’t have to.
Zimbabwe, Mali. How far back did it go? Was their whole relationship, going back to their very first meeting in the Sahara Desert eleven years ago, built on a lie?
Judd should have been furious, he knew. His wife—his most trusted confidante, the mother of his two children—had been deceiving him for years. She had always been private and a bit of a loner. He accepted that. It was one of her attractions. But now he knew that she had been playing him like a puppet master. Worse, if Jessica had manipulated him into an unwitting role in a political assassination in Zimbabwe, then his own wife had tricked him into murder.
As jarring as these realizations were, Judd marveled to find that he wasn’t upset. Once he pushed through the confusion, he was, deep down . . . grateful.
Who had ever heard of a college professor running his own special one-man team inside the U.S. government? It was ridiculous, he now knew. Judd’s experiment at the State Department, his Crisis Reaction Unit, the baby he had created from scratch, had been set up to fail. How could he have expected to succeed without help, without some hidden hand? How could Landon Parker, the Secretary of State’s powerful chief of staff, who had created S/CRU and hired Judd, not have known this, too?
Lying in the warm comfort of his bed, Judd realized his world was suddenly turned upside down. But he wasn’t angry, because, on the most essential issue, Jessica had been utterly convincing. While he was only now learning her true identity, he still believed that their marriage, their family, their life together, was all real. Her love was real.
Jessica’s big brown eyes opened.